


A Killer Breakfast

by mother_finch



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, Gen, mother-finch fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 00:18:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4283466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mother_finch/pseuds/mother_finch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>PROMPT: prompt: Root has often cooked for Shaw, so she decides it's time to return the favor. Pancakes can't be that hard, right? Wrong. The meal turns out horrible and burnt and whatnot, but Root eats all of it because she knows this is a serious thing for Shaw.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Killer Breakfast

It's Sunday. The sunlight is soft as it filters through the bedroom window, casting a four-square pattern unevenly across the room. Shaw can feel its warm touch on her face, and stirs. She gives her neck a slight roll, then arches her back to stretch out her sleeping muscles. She draws in a deep breath, then lets it drag out slowly, not wanting to leave the comfort of the mattress.

Beside her, she can feel light breath lapping at the side of her neck. Prying her eyes open, she casts her gaze to the right, and her vision instantly fills with a sleeping form. A smile grazes Shaw's lips at seeing Root, sound asleep and tucked close to her side.

* * *

 

Shaw's mind wanders back to the night before; how late they'd arrived home. Just as any of their team, the two had worked long into the night before; however, Root seemed more exhausted than ever.  _By the time I changed_ , Shaw thinks with a silent laugh at the memory,  _she was already snoring._

Shaw crept under the covers soon after, trying hard to remain inaudible as not to wake Root, and is still uncertain if it worked. Whether she was awake, or whether it was just a reflex, Root rolled onto her side, burrowing herself into the blankets and Shaw. Even by this point, Shaw was always stiff at first- unused to the closeness that she'd strayed away from for so long- but eventually wrapped an arm around Root and closed her eyes.

Now, she uses that same form of stealth to slowly untangle herself from Root's hold. She retrieves her arm from around Root, then tediously works her forearm out of Root's hand before playing a game of Sticks with their legs.

Finally, Shaw breaks free, and quietly comes to a stand beside the bed. Looking down at Root, Shaw watches her flop over onto her stomach, unfazed and unaware of Shaw's absence. Shaw pulls her hair into a tight ponytail as she walks through the door way and out to the kitchen. Just as she heads for the refrigerator she stops, looks over her shoulder, and silently pads back to the door. She swings it shut. The latch click that would usually sound like nothing more than the muffled snapping of fingers to her is now a sonic boom in the silence. Shaw waits, ear up to the door with bated breath, for any signs of a disturbance from Root.

Satisfied she's still asleep, Shaw sets back out towards the kitchen.

________\ If Your Number's Up /________

_Pancakes can't be that hard, right?_

Shaw lets ingredients spill onto the counter as she retrieves them from the fridge and nearby cabinets.  _Root's done it a thousand times; it's never looked terribly difficult._

She pulls over the box of mix and reads the instructions on the side. Eggs, vegetable oil, and water.  _Simple._

Pushing it back, she turns on the coffee maker, then grabs a large bowl from the shelf. The mix is scooped into a large measuring cup, and she turns it over.

_'Poof!'_

White powder slams back into her face, and she closes her eyes tight. Turning her head, she lets out a cough, then feels for a nearby towel.

' _Crack!'_

The sound brings a dread to Shaw's heart and- a moment later- there is a thick, cool liquid making its way past the fabric of her socks. Swiping up the towel, she wipes off her face as best she can, then stoops over to pick up the shattered egg.

After tossing it in the trashcan, she discards her socks, ready to start up once more.  _Water_. Taking it into her hands, she measures it carefully, then eases it into the bowl.

 _Eggs_. She takes the first in her right hand, then smacks it into the edge of the bowl as she remembers Root doing so many times before; yet, unlike Root, Shaw's egg does not simmer down so well. As soon as it hits the rim, it explodes in a mess of shell shrapnel and yolk, both splattering into the bowl and oozing down the outside. Shaw can feel her ears getting hot as her frustration mounts. _I didn't realize it took a culinary degree to make breakfast,_  she mutters to herself as she wipes the outside of the bowl clean. She picks at the shell pieces in the mix, and can only hope she's gotten them all out. Feeling the anger tensing up her muscles, she stiffly picks up the next egg. This one takes four tries to crack, and Shaw feels just about ready to shatter herself. She has half a mind to give up on the whole thing right here and now, but something stops her.

 _Root cooks for you all the time_ , she tells herself, bringing the last egg to the edge of the bowl.  _Don't you think you owe her at least_  one  _meal in return?_  Her eyes involuntarily trail back to the closed door, and the hand of determination grips her firmly.

Tossing the eggshells away, Shaw grabs the container of vegetable oil, and pours it into the measuring cup. Looking back at it with a skeptical eye, she gives her head a disbelieving shake.  _This is almost half the bottle..._ Checking the box again, she shrugs. Dumping it in, she grabs a large wooden spoon from the counter, and begins to stir.

The contents look like nothing shy of vomit in the bowl, and she thinks again of throwing it out.  _I could always_ buy  _her something to eat,_  Shaw thinks to herself, trying in vain to swirl the copious amount of oil into the dry mix.  _Something that, oh I don't know,_ won't  _kill her._

"Mix thoroughly for six to eight minutes," she reads aloud, pushing her arm around in a tight circle. The powder tufts up into the air, and every so often the oil splashes up and onto the counter. On and on she goes, until she can feel the burn in her arm and the ache in her shoulder. Looking up at the microwave clock, she sees seven minutes have passed.

She allows the spoon to rest on the edge of the bowl, turns on the stove, then chances a peek down. To her dismay, she sees the mix coagulated and lumpy, and clucks her teeth in dismay.  _Maybe it'll look better after it cooks._  She tries to convince herself, but it goes no where far.

 _C'mon, think_ , she says to herself, tapping her temple as if to jog her memory.  _How does Root do it_. Her mind goes back to the numerous times Root had cooked, especially pancakes. Shaw places herself back into one of those memories, trying to watch- to learn.

However, it is apparent her mind was never focused on what Root was truly doing. She can remember the scents of things cooking and the sounds of bowls being stirred, batter sizzling, and Root's laugh. But, when it comes to sight, the only thing Shaw's mind scrounges up is Root. Her smile when Shaw greets her, and the flush of her cheeks from the times Shaw had said anything likewise of endearment. Her narrowed eyes and scrunched mouth at Shaw's undoubtedly sarcastic remarks, and her kiss, surely an attempt to get Shaw to shut up. She could recall a hundred things about Root, but not a damn thing about pancakes.

With an annoyed sigh, Shaw brings herself to, and takes up a spoonful of the batter, ready to pour it out on the pan. It slides off the spoon in chunks, the excess oil slipping free first, then met by a beige-colored mix riddled with lumps. After three, she places the spoon back, drops a few chocolate chips in each, and waits.

She grows impatient, constantly prodding at the pancakes with a fork. Each time she does, the centers spill out, and she feels her impatience mount. Finally, she tosses the fork into the sink, and- looking around- she spots bread at the far side of the counter. "Who could screw up toast?" She asks herself, unraveling the twist tie at the bag's top.

 _If the answer isn't evident, it's me_. Call it nerves or a wandering mind, but Shaw recognized herself as a hopeless chef. In all of her years, she was fine eating anything can or microwave related- this was something of an entirely different realm. Part of it, whether she would admit it or not, is due to stress. Wanting it to be not only okay, but the best. Wanting Root to wake up to something that would make her really smile; it's Shaw's unspoken goal.

Yet, as the blunders continued, her stress increased, only causing her tightly wound muscles and over crowded head to produce more and more errors. Before her sit four pieces of toast. Kind of. Looking them over with a scrutinizing eye, she deems them more or less singed bread slices than toast. However, with the rest of the half-loaf trashed after countless mishaps of burning or dropping, she didn't dare chance over cooking these as well.

The kitchen smells burnt, and she's thankful she closed the bedroom door, sure that the not-so-pleasant aroma would have awoken Root ages ago otherwise. Placing the toast on a plate, Shaw turns, then freezes. Her eyes go wide.

"Shit," she says among other things as she scampers back to the stove. In the wake of toast turmoil, she'd forgotten entirely about the pancakes. With a spatula, she tries to flip the first over. It's stuck. Again she tries, this time wiggling the spatula far towards the center, and manages to pry the pancake up and over. The side that greets her is a ghastly black. Shaw flips the other two with the same result, and can feel the angry steam billowing out of her ears.

Scraping them off of the pan, she lays them on a plate to cool before pouring more of the ugly mix onto the pan. This time, she doesn't leave her post. Shaw's eyes bore menacingly into the three brown speckled circles, daring them to come out any way other than right. She can feel a light sweat break at her brow from the stove's heat, and wipes it away peskily. Two agonizingly long minutes roll by, and Shaw flips the pancakes.

To her relief, the undersides are white, and a relieved sliver of a smile greets her lips as she closes her eyes with a sigh. Another two minutes pass, and she slides them off of the pan and onto the plate. Six pancakes, four eggs, two socks, and half a loaf of bread later, Shaw wipes her hands on a towel, finished.

Not a moment later, the bedroom door creaks open.

_______\ We'll Find You /_______

Root saunters out in an oversized t-shirt with her hair tucked up in a messy bun. She covers her mouth as she yawns, then pulls her arms out in a stretch.

"Is something on fi-" She stops, eyes finally opening; focusing in on the catastrophe before her. The smell of burning food is almost thick enough to see, and it lays with a heavy, bitter taste on her tongue. Shaw stands in the eye of the storm, dry mix sitting over her nose, smeared across her forehead and cheek, and powdered down the collar of her tank top. Just behind her, the counter glistens with the translucent yellow of what she can only assume is oil, and pancake spatter speckles the length of the wall. Amidst the chaos, Root can't help but smile.

"What," Shaw demands defensively, eyes a mixture of fatigue and fury.

"Oh,  _Sweetie_ ," Root laughs out kindly, treading carefully forward to stand before Shaw, "what did the kitchen ever do to you?" Shaw, unamused, rolls her eyes and turns away from Root with a frustrated growl. Stifling her giggles, Root brings her hand to Shaw's shoulder and spins her back around. The set jaw and smoldering eyes she receives make her heart soar. "I'm kidding," Root tells her sincerely, and Shaw's muscles uncoil.

Closer now, Root takes another look around- partially to see what Shaw has done, and partially to know how much cleaning will be required later. "So uh," she asks Shaw casually, "what is all this?"

Shaw looks up at Root, studying her face, and trying to get the words out as easily as possible. In her head, it seemed simple to explain what she was up to, but now it seemed harder than cooking. Taking a steadying breath, Shaw pushes the syllables forcefully from her lips.

"I made you breakfast." At the sound of the words, Root's head whips around to face Shaw, eyes surprised and smile delighted. The sight calms Shaw's rattling nerves- but only slightly.

"Aren't  _you_  wonderful," Root coos, draping her arms across Shaw's shoulders and giving her a smirk that sends a thrill down Shaw's spine. She rests her forehead on Shaw's, and Shaw can feel her heart quickening its pace.

"I wouldn't say that just yet," Shaw murmurs, and Root's mellifluous laugh fills her ears like the most beautiful symphony. Root's hand travels to Shaw's face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before rubbing her thumb across Shaw's cheek.

Shaw can feel all her senses clouded, Root being a blanket surrounding her, but one thing hazily makes its way through. _What did I do with the..._

"God  _damm_ it," Shaw hisses, wistfully pulling away from Root and turning to the coffee pot. With a contemptuous glare, she can see the burnt grounds clogging up the filter, and yanks the coffee pot from its place.

Turning back around, Shaw does a double take at seeing Root's face. It seemed the happiest Shaw had ever seen it. _I don't know why_ , Shaw thinks to herself with a new sense of dread.  _This is going to be awful._

Nonetheless, Shaw shoos Root away to the table, says a sends a silent prayer to every god she could remember the name of from high school, and sets toward the table with a plate in each hand. To her dismay, the stack of pancakes still looks fairly lumpy, not to mention unstable as it sways left to right.

Placing them down on the table, she is repulsed to see the slightest shaking of her hands.  _Of all the near-death experiences you've had,_ this _is your downfall?_ She scolds, taking her seat across from Root. Shaw feels an unease at seeing the meal she's prepared, and wonders if Root would leave her if she winds up getting serious food poisoning.

Before Shaw has time to ask, Root slides three pancakes and two slices of toast onto her plate, her face bright as day with a smile like the sun. Still, Shaw is unconvinced.  _Will she like it?_  She thinks back over the recipe. _I followed it,_  she assures herself,  _it'll be fine_.

From across the table, Root can't help but feel elated. Looking down at her plate, she sees one very black pancake paired with two very white ones. Cutting the first, pale cake down the center, she sees a beige fluid run out, and has to swallow down a laugh before Shaw notices.

She wasn't laughing at her- that was never something that would cross her mind. She was just...  _happy. In every sense of the word._ And seeing each little mistake only made the feeling grow; knowing just how hard Shaw tried, and just how greatly cooking was not Shaw's calling. Her laughter was anything but cruel, just a way for the excess wells of affection and excitement to escape confinement.

However, in chewing the first bite of the terribly undercooked pancake before her, a part of the excitement is squelched. She can hear her tastebuds retaliating, her stomach screaming for her not to do it, but she does. Without breaking her positive disposition for even a moment, she swallows it down, feeling the slimy consistency slipping down her throat alongside the sharp edges of eggshells.

Again and again she brings the food in by the forkful, and her stomach shrieks in protest each time. Looking up from time to time, Root sees Shaw sneaking glances over at her, her own food barely touched- nerves forbidding it- and a nervous crease on her still spattered forehead.

"What did you put in these?" Root asks conversationally, the overwhelming taste of vegetable oil filling her mouth.

"Just what the box said," Shaw tells her, the burnt pancake she's working on crunching loudly as she cuts it. "Three eggs, a cup of water, and five tablespoons of vegetable oi-"

"Teaspoons, you mean?" Root cuts in, and Shaw's pupils dilate slightly upon realizing the blunder. Root bites her tongue, wishing she hadn't spoken up. Shaw, shaking her head in defeat and bringing her fingers to pinch the bridge of her nose, sighs.

"Give me that," Shaw says at last, standing up and reaching over the table to grab the plate. Root grabs her hand and gently pushes it away.

"No!" Root replies with the bubbling of a laugh in her voice. "It's fine, Sameen. Really." Shaw gives her a skeptical stare, but sits none the less.

Root, now down to the last half of the last pancake, cuts it up. It is a hockey puck being cut with a toothbrush, but still she works on it. Finally, it is in squares, and she crunches down on the tooth-breaking piece of charcoal and dry powder pockets. From across the table, Root can see the visible anxiety mounting in Shaw's eyes by the second, her face a shade lighter than normal. Root bites down on an exceptionally hard spot, and her lip gives an involuntary twitch to a pained grimace.

"You really don't have to eat that," Shaw tells her, voice nearly concealing her glum undertones.

"Are you  _kidding_?" Root says with a kind smile. She leans into the table with a secretive air in her countenance. "I'm thinking of letting you cook more often." She gives Shaw a quick wink before sitting back in her chair, polishing off the last of the pancake and the toast. It tastes like a lukewarm piece of slightly stale bread, but her body is done trying to complain. She can almost hear her stomach give a final, weak  _'you're a love sick idiot'_  before giving up the fight.

Taking a swig of overdone and awfully bitter- even past the hogshead of sugar- coffee, Root pushes away from her chair and sets toward the kitchen with Shaw just behind. She places her dish in the sink, all the while a first, small wave of nausea overcomes her.

"You alright?" Shaw asks instantly, not once taking her eye off of Root after she insisted upon finishing the meal.  _She's gonna die because of me_ , Shaw thinks to herself for the umpteenth time. Root, peering over at her, smiles.

"Never better," she replies, truly meaning it. Even with the slight upset of her stomach, it seems nothing more than a minute fluke in an otherwise perfect morning. Watching Shaw's eyes for a few seconds, she can see her impassiveness playing a game of tag with fret, the fronts going back and forth between which will show. "Thank you," Root adds, leaning over to give Shaw a quick kiss.

When Root pulls away, Shaw sees the slightest white smudge on Root's nose. Confused, Shaw brings her fingers up curiously to her own, only to draw them back with pancake mix.

"Why didn't you tell me I had- had  _this_  all over," Shaw demands in an accusatory tone, holding her hand forward for Root to see. Root's eyes light up in amusement, and her lopsided grin catches in a smirk as she looks Shaw over.

"Why would I?" Root asks, play in her words. "It was cu-"

" _Don't_ ," Shaw snaps viciously, then stops herself, takes a deep breath, and continues. "Don't even  _say_  it." Root merely laughs at the venom, and Shaw feels her face growing hot with chagrin.


End file.
